


A Favor For Gloriana - For the Greater Glory of the Queen

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Gloriana'Verse [1]
Category: Elizabeth (Movies), White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Elizabethan Era, Alternate Universe - Historical, Elizabethan, F/F, F/M, M/M, marital discord
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:46:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early Elizabethan Era Historical A/U - Peter Burke works for Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s Spy Master, Elizabeth Burke is the Queen’s Mistress of the Revels and Neal Caffrey is a ne’er-do-well artist and courtier, incarcerated in the Fleet Prison for debt. The golden age has yet to flower in Merry Old England, and it’s going to take a deft hand to manage all the players that will keep Good Queen Bess on the throne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Favor For Gloriana - For the Greater Glory of the Queen

**  
__  
**

**Whitehall Palace - Mid July, 1568**

  
Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s spymaster, finally looked up from the piles of papers that littered his desk. He had kept Master Burke waiting long enough and was impressed with his patience. Burke had been standing there, arms at his side, back straight, staring at a spot on the wall for the better part of a quarter hour.

“What do you have for me?”

“Neal Caffrey, Sir.”

“Hmmmm … the name is familiar.” Walsingham’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. He knew exactly who Neal Caffrey was, but he didn’t know why Burke would be interested in him.

“Caffrey’s been in the Fleet for the past four months.”

“Yes, I know. Played too deep at Maw...owes that prick Dudley ten pounds.”

“He claims that Dudley cheated.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he had. But know this, if Caffrey wasn’t in the Fleet for his debt to Dudley, he’d be in Newgate for theft - the Countess of Lyle’s jewels went missing the day Caffrey was taken to the Fleet. Caffrey was seen near her mansion that morning.” Walsingham’s information got no reaction out of Burke.

“What is your interest in Caffrey?”

“Caffrey’s assisted me in some of the more… delicate… tasks you’ve given me.”

Walsingham raised an eyebrow. He clearly wanted more information.

“Neal’s been useful to me - to us. He can get people, servants and nobles alike, to trust him, to share their secrets.” Peter licked his lips, trying not to show how nervous he was, but to a man as experienced in lies and deception as Walsingham, it was if his agitation was painted on his brow. “I’m worried about Caffrey. He’s not the type of man who’ll last long in the gaol.”

“What do you want me to do about it? The Crown isn’t going to clear his debt - especially not one to Robert Dudley.” Walsingham had no fondness the Queen’s favorite - he was a weak, profligate traitor - but Elizabeth wouldn’t hear a word against him. If he used Crown funds to pay a debt to Dudley, then every cardsharp and jackanapes who either owed Dudley or Dudley owed money to would come calling and beggar the already strained treasury.

There was a bitter, unhappy look in Peter’s eyes. “My wife - she’s one of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting. If I could see her, I will have access to the funds needed to pay off Caffrey’s debts to Dudley and to the Fleet.”

Walsingham knew, just as he knew everything about anyone intimately associated with his queen, that Burke was as loyal and faithful as an old hound, even though his lady’s father did everything he could to drive a wedge between them, and there was no more effect one than coin.

The spymaster steepled his fingers and looked at the man standing across from him. “Your wife is Mistress of the Revels, a very favored position at court. You, however, are never in attendance.”

This wasn’t a question. Walsingham knew both of the Burkes’ pedigrees. The wife, as the only daughter of the Earl of Henley, and a beloved grandchild of the Duke of Grafton, would have every right to attend upon Her Majesty, despite her marriage to Peter Burke, a _misalliance_ of the highest order. Burke, though educated at Oxford, was the son of a stone mason and would have no place amongst the nobles who flocked to the Tudor court.

Burke said nothing.

“I can’t help you with your financial problems, so what do you want from me, Master Burke?”

“I would be most appreciative if you could get a message to my lady wife that I need to see her. She has ignored my missives for the past two weeks, and Quarter Day has come and gone. This is all I am requesting, sir.”

Burke sighed, and Walsingham pitied him. Burke married far above his station and he believed that his wife regretted their hasty elopement. Truth was that while Elizabeth Burke still loved her husband, she loved her Queen more, and was willing to sacrifice her husband to the greater happiness of her monarch. That suited Walsingham just fine.

But he liked Burke, and was willing to throw him a bone.

“Present yourself at Whitehall tomorrow at the third hour after noon, and you’ll have the audience you seek.”

“Will it be a private one?” Burke’s voice was hopeful.

“That, sir - I cannot guarantee. Her Majesty is most protective of her ladies’ virtue.”

Burke’s back went stiffer, if possible. “She is my wife, her honor and her virtue belong to me.”

“No, Master Burke, her honor and her virtue belong to her Queen. But I will try to arrange for a few discreet moments for you. That is all I can promise.”

Burke obviously knew better than to argue with his employer, and nodded his thanks.

“Tomorrow, the third hour after noon. Thank you, Master Walsingham.” Burke bowed and left.

* * *

_Her honor and her virtue belong to her Queen._ Ha! Elizabeth’s honor and her virtue were spent lolling between her Queen’s thighs.

Peter had no illusions about his wife anymore. He may not be a member of the Tudor Queen’s glittering court, but information was his stock and trade and he knew that his wife was far more than a lady-in-waiting. Her position in the royal bedroom had been confirmed by multiple sources. But despite her infidelity, her abandonment of her marriage vows, he still loved her, and would do anything to make her happy. That was the problem, there was nothing he _could_ do - without the assistance of her family, he lacked station, political connections and the funds that could keep El in even the most basic luxuries. No, it was better that she was part of the royal court and kept from him. This way, he wouldn’t have to see her beautiful face grow cold and bitter, old before her time. If serving the Queen, in and out of her bed, made her happy - who was he to interfere?

_Just an idiot who loved a woman who no longer loved him._

Not for the first time did he curse Elizabeth’s bigoted father, who would rather see his daughter suffer than be happy. Had Peter known his father-in-law would rather cut his only child out of his life than see her married to a stone mason’s son, a Scots-English mongrel, he never would have dared touch, let alone eloped with the young, vibrant Elizabeth. But there was no way to undo the past - short of death or divorce. It just galled him that when his wife’s even more powerful grandfather, the old Duke of Grafton, arranged for a court position for her, she departed for Whitehall before the ink on her acceptance note had dried.

He made his way back to his dwellings in Grosvenor, a pleasant town house that Grafton had provided to him in a surprising moment of pity after Elizabeth fled to Court. Peter had wanted to throw the offer back in his face, but swallowed his pride and accepted the gift, along with a staff and a small stipend to pay them, in the hopes that if Elizabeth deigned to visit him, she wouldn’t be thoroughly disgusted, as she had by the mean rooms they had taken above a tavern in Shoreditch when they first came to London.

In the six years since El went to serve the Queen, he’d seen her alone less than dozen times. In the past two years, their only contact had been around Quarter Day, when she gave him his “allowance” – an action stipulated by the Earl of Henley if she wanted to keep his favor. It was emasculating for him and humiliating for her, just what her father wanted. She never came to Peter, he always went to her – at her convenience.

Peter dropped his cloak on the hallway settle and made his way into his study, where he practically lived these days. His old hound, Satch, raised his head and wagged his tail, too fat and lazy to get up and greet his master properly. At least his manservant, Hughes, knew his duties, and brought his a tankard of ale and a plate of cold meat and fresh bread.

“Anything I need to know?” The old man was not one to offer his opinion, though his tongue was sharp and he didn’t tolerate fools, shook his head and nodded in the direction of the young man waiting by the fireplace.

His secretary, Clinton Jones, another small blessing from the Duke of Grafton, gave him a rundown on the household status. “We’re low on just about everything, and the merchants are willing to extend you credit, but I know you prefer to pay in coin.” Peter avoid debt like the plague. Jones rambled on about the doings in the neighborhood, and Peter took mental notes on what needed to be looked into and what could be ignored.

“Also, the house next door’s been let - likely to a pair of whores. There doesn’t seem to be any men there. The girls look young and pretty and healthy.” Jones gave him a salacious wink. “Maybe we can work out a mutually beneficial arrangement - provide them with bodyguards in exchange for a house account.”

Peter grimaced. “If you find you have the time to watch out for a bunch of prostitutes, maybe I’m not keeping you busy enough.” Clinton backed off and Peter felt like a shite - the man’s talents were criminally underutilized. “Look - there’s no reason you can’t do what you want during your evenings. If it makes you happy to knock around with whores, go ahead. I’m a married man.” _For what that’s worth._

“Thank you - thank you!” Jones’ spirits restored, he bowed and departed.

Peter was quite certain that Hughes and Jones, as well as the rest of the small household staff, reported on his doings to Grafton, and probably to Walsingham as well. It certainly wouldn’t stand well with either man to learn that he was working for a brothel. However, his comment to Jones was heartfelt - he had no interest in paying for a fuck.

And then, Peter considered the problem of Neal Caffrey. Walsingham had the man pegged correctly - he _was_ a thief, as well as liar and a forger. This was a pity, because Caffrey was immensely talented. In the three years that he’d known the man, he couldn’t figure out why Neal destroyed his reputation as an artist by copying the works of others and selling them as originals. If he was talented enough to copy a Nicholas Hilliard or a Hans Holbein, why not just use those talents to establish himself as an artist in his own right?

The man was attractive, charming and would have had no problem in earning a good living as a portraitist. Instead, he ran with a fast crowd, played beyond his means, funded his amusements by stealing from the wealthy ladies he undoubtedly fucked under their husbands’ noses, and now managed to land himself in debtor’s prison with no way to get himself out.

Peter hadn’t lied to Walsingham when he said that Neal had been useful to him in the execution of several of the spymaster’s commissions, but if Peter was honest with himself, he wanted Neal out of the gaol for more personal reasons. Caffrey was probably the one person that truly challenged him, made him feel alive in ways that he hadn’t in years, at least not since Elizabeth left him for the glory and the glitter of Court. These days, he wasn’t sure if it was his wife’s blue eyes or Caffrey’s he thought about when he jerked himself off. And it was getting to the point that he didn’t care.

Peter sipped his ale and let his thoughts spiral down dark roads.

* * *

Neal idly scratched at the flea bite on his shoulder and contemplated his next move. His bishops were blocked and there were too many permutations to consider if he sacrificed his queen-side knight to his opponent’s rook. But faint heart never one the fair lady…

“That’s check-mate in five moves, _mon frere_.”

Neal grimaced at the small, near-sighted man who shared his cell. Moz was strange but entertaining, and more than willing to share his food, his information and even his bedding. Life in the Fleet Prison was grim for those who didn’t have the coin to pay for even the most basic amenities, like Neal. When he asked Moz why he kept paying the gaoler instead of just paying off his debt, the older man shrugged and muttered something about it being safer to keep secrets on the inside. Neal didn’t pry, though he wanted to. Secrets were a valuable commodity.

Moz did have a habit of talking in his sleep, and over the past few weeks, Neal had been able to put together something scary. He hadn't told his strange friend that his secrets were not so secret anymore, and he wondered if he should just get a message out to the Crown authorities. Or to Peter Burke.

In the privacy of his own thoughts, he admitted that he was fascinated by the man, and he kept finding ways to wander into his orbit. He fed Burke tidbits of news he picked up from the high and low places he roamed, and once or twice deliberately went out of his way to gather some information Peter specifically asked for. Their interactions were usually brief, but the last two times they met, Peter had insisted on feeding Neal and the evening had lingered into early morning before they parted company. Both times, Neal felt that he was missing something - something obvious and important.

To keep his brain from obsessing about Burke, Neal took risks - like stealing the Margaret Borden’s ruby earrings in broad daylight or playing too deep with the rich and powerful.

Moz snapped his fingers at him, returning his attention to the chess board.

“You want to play this out or start a new game.”

“Listen, Moz - there’s something important I need to tell you.”

Moz didn’t look up as he reset the pieces.

“Moz?”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“That you’re in love with me and want to get out of here and go away to some far distant land. Maybe write poetry and paint pictures in your devotion.”

“Noooo, Moz. That’s the furthest thing from my mind.”

The little man looked up at Neal, blinking in the semi-darkness of the prison cell. “Then what could be more important than our next game.”

“You talk in your sleep.”

Moz blinked at him.

“You’ve been talking about a plot against the Queen - you mentioned Norfolk and the Scottish bitch, Mary. Is this why you’re holed up here in the Fleet?”

Moz shushed him and scrambled to the far side of the cell, muttering to himself, whispering of plots and schemes and knives in the dark.

“I have a friend...someone who can help you. Help us.”

“No one can help…” Moz moaned and clutched at his head.

“Please … let me get a note to my friend. He works for Walsingham.”

That seemed to be the magic word. Moz calmed down and crept back to Neal. “You’ve got to understand...all I’ve got are bits and pieces. I don’t have anything documentation, just rumor and innuendo. Things I hear and I can put together.”

Neal nodded. “That the type information that my friend always looks for. He’s good at putting the pieces together. He’ll keep us safe.”

“There’s no safety for me, friend. I know too much - not just about you know what, but about other things. Strange goings on - with the moon and the planets. The stars talk to me sometimes, they tell me stories of what happens when you mix this with that and walk backwards in the garden of the night. Hermes Trismegistus is all seeing and all knowing.” Moz rambled on, mixing in Latin and a language Neal thought could be Greek. In the three months that he’d been sharing a cell with Moz, Neal learned that it took little to turn him into a raving, albeit harmless lunatic. Until he got control of himself, there was nothing he could do to help the man when he was like this.

He grabbed the bedding and let Moz’s ramble flow over him. When the other man returned to some semblance of sanity, he’d get a few pennies from him to pay for a message to Peter. This was information he could use - it could even get him out of this rat infested hellhole.

* * *

Lady Elizabeth Burke watched as two of her Queen’s ladies performed a masque for Her Majesty, reciting several of Petrach’s love poems to Laura – first in Italian and then, for the benefit of those less educated than their Queen, in English. These small and elegant affairs were staples in her repertoire, impromptu jollities that could be launched at a moment’s notice, when the monarch was in one of those moods. Today was nearly perfect for this kind of outdoor tableau. The apple trees had just come into bloom and the light breeze wafted their fragrant petals throughout the private Royal courtyard. As the ladies completed their dance, she caught Her Majesty’s eye – Elizabeth was pleased. A day as fine as this was not made to be spent in statecraft, although El knew her Queen would work long hours into the night to compensate for the time spent in these frivolities.

“We are most pleased with you, Our Lady El. You have, once again, given Us a agreeable diversion. And to you, Mistress Anne and Mistress Katherine, We thank you for your excellent display.” The Queen gestured to El, who dismissed Anne and Katherine and went to sit at her Majesty’s feet.

“Sweet El, you have made Us happy today. But We fear that you will be quite distressed.” The Queen was fanning her face with a folded piece of paper.

El went still – was it her grandfather, who had taken ill last winter and never quite recovered? Was her father coming to court? She hated him with a passion. Then her blood ran cold - _Peter_. Had something happened to him?

Her Majesty, taking pity on her favorite lady, handed her a missive, the seal broken. “Master Walsingham has asked that you meet with your husband.”

Elizabeth quickly scanned the note. It wasn’t from Peter, but from Walsingham himself. _Yr husband wishes to see you today. 3 after the noon hr in the south garden. Pls be there._

“We are afraid, my dear, that you will need to see your husband. When Walsingham requests, it is necessary to comply.”

El bowed her head. She never precisely lied to her Queen that she didn’t want to see her husband, since that wasn’t far from the truth. It was simply easier to let Her Majesty believe that she had no desire, no affection for her husband. Elizabeth Tudor was a woman of strong passions, which she kept mostly in check, but she had little tolerance for sharing her affections. If she realized that her favorite still loved her husband...

Seeing Peter was both a pleasure and a torture. She had so loved the big strong man she run off with, but life with him was too hard. She felt like a failure at every turn – she couldn’t be the housewife he needed, she couldn’t seem to bear him children. Although he never, ever reprimanded her for her flaws and failures, she couldn’t bear to look at him and find disgust, contempt in his eyes.

And then there were the conditions her father imposed on them. As long as she was at court and living apart from her lawful husband, he would provide Peter with a generous allowance. But Peter needed to ask for it on his knees and Elizabeth had to hand it to him ever quarter day. It was shaming for both of them, and ensured that they’d never be happy.

“Well, Lady Elizabeth - if you are to see your husband, you need to move swiftly. It is almost the appointed time.” Her Majesty waved a languid white hand towards the one of the jeweled clocks that always accompanied her. It was a quarter to the hour and it would take that long for her to get to the South Garden. “You will take your maid with you. It would be most improper for one of Our favorites to be unaccompanied in the presence of a man.”

El curtseyed and backed out of Her Majesty’s presence. Her maid or more precisely, her father’s spy, Hunter, was waiting in the gallery. “Go to my quarters and retrieve the box my father sent me - you know which one. Hunter frowned, unhappy at letting her mistress go anywhere alone. “Move quickly and catch up with me in the South Garden. You undoubtedly know about this meeting with my husband - everyone did - except for me.”

She rushed through the corridors, her little feet in their summer slippers making a light tapping sound against the cold stone floors. Nearby church bells were ringing the hour just as she burst into the South Garden. Peter was standing under one of the ancient oaks the courtyard had been built around, the breeze making the leaves shiver. Sunlight flickered across his broad shoulders, creating patterns of gold and green on his dark, serviceable cloak. Looking at him from across the garden, he was like a rock, eternal, unchanging. And sad. It wasn’t hard to tell, from his posture. Her strong husband looked tired, weary, beaten down. El knew with a bone deep certainty that she did this to him - and it was going to get worse before it got better, if it ever could get better.

Then he looked up, and the sunlight gilded the strong planes of his jaw and made his dark eyes glow. He smiled at her, a wry, beautiful smile and all El wanted to do was rush into his arms and beg him to take her home, to his bed and stay there forever. She lifted her skirts, as if to start to run and then the sound of her approaching maid’s sturdy footwear stopped her. She could no more leave her Queen than she could fly. He must have see her maid approach with the box, like she did every Quarter Day, and Peter’s smile died.

She walked halfway into the garden and waited for Peter to come to her. He did, with obvious reluctance, his expression stony, his dark eyes now filled with bitterness. He greeted her first.

“Milady Wife, you are well?” His voice held no inflection.

“Husband, I am well. And you?” Her tone was equally cool, equally empty.

“I am, as always, fine.”

El wanted to scream at him, but she just nodded instead.

“Let’s get this farce over with.” This, at least contained some emotion - albeit anger.

Then he dropped to his knees began to recite the words her father required, his voice flat and dead. “Milady, as a baseborn mongrel, I have no right to even stand in your shadow, let alone call you wife. I am unfit to touch the veriest hem of your skirt, and my merest presence is a stain upon the honor of the House of Henley. But I beseech you, as I am nothing but a knave and an opportunist, to grant me the funds that I would be entitled to receive as your most humble and abased servant.” Peter didn’t look at her, but at the ground.

She strove for an equal lack of emotion. “You accept these fund as a symbol of the generosity of the House of Henley and agree not to approach me or any of my household or my family as anything other than a most humble and undeserving servant.” This misbegotten ritual complete, Peter rose to his feet and El motioned to Hunter to give him the box. He opened it and took the bags of coinage, securing them underneath his doublet. Hunter stepped back a few paces.

They stood there, looking at each other, separated by mere foot lengths - but it might as well have been the Channel.

She turned to leave but Peter stopped her. She didn’t turn back to face him.

“Elizabeth - why wouldn’t you see me? Why did you make me go through Walsingham?” His voice had a slight break in it. “Is it not enough for you that I must shame you, shame myself with this ritual? Am I forever to be begging for the merest moments of your company? _You are still my wife_.”

How could she explain to him that she despised this - that it destroyed her every single time. How she wished she never had to see him again, because seeing him like this was agony. She turned to face him, forcing a frigid coldness into her voice. “I thought your employment with Walsingham, and the money you’ve accepted from my grandsire would be enough to keep you. You must have developed extravagant tastes.” El knew that for a lie. Walsingham paid him a pittance and the money from the Duke of Grafton wasn’t much more than that.

“If you believe that, Milady Wife, they perhaps you never knew me at all.” The anger was gone.

“Perhaps not, sirrah.”

That was too much of an insult from her, and she saw Peter’s back go rigid.

“It’s been six years since we’ve lain together. I have kept to my marriage vows. It is a pity you cannot say the same during your time here at Court.”

El felt her cheeks burn. She whispered furiously at him. “What you are implying is treason.”

Peter’s mouth twisted in a mocking grin and he whispered back. “Odd how you don’t defend your honor - you don’t swoon and declare your chastity. Are her breasts sweet? Her cunny moist? Or is she a horror without her wig and her paint?”

She slapped him hard, but he barely blinked.

“You are making this too easy, my good wife.”

“What do you mean?” El was suddenly nervous...her indiscrete tongue could mean her death. She should have denied Peter’s accusations or played ignorant.

“No more...no more hanging on your skirts, awaiting your favor.” He laughed, a harsh and ugly sound. “I’ll be here, each Quarter Day and we’ll complete this ritual as your esteemed father demands, but I’ll be damned if I keep playing the fool for your love.”

Peter turned on his boot heel and walked out of the garden. Elizabeth stood there as clouds quickly gathered and it began to drizzle, then pour. She stood there, still and unmoving as the spring rain mingled with the tears on her face.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I had published the individual stories as chapters, but they really need to stand alone - as they do in my LJ entries. I have deleted each of the subsequent chapters and re-posted them individually. Please see [the Gloriana'verse series list](http://archiveofourown.org/series/139812) here on AO3 for all of the stories in their proper order with their original publication dates.


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